The Weight of Feathers

 

The grand ballroom of the ITC Grand Chola in Chennai buzzed with anticipation. Elegant decorations adorned every corner, and the air was filled with the soft melodies of carnatic music.

Guests in their finest attire mingled, their excited chatter creating a lively atmosphere.

This was no ordinary gathering; it was the 60th birthday celebration of Sriram Sangharalingam Iyer, the Global Chief Operating Officer of L'Oréal, the French cosmetics giant.

Known simply as "Sam" to most, he had coined this nickname early in his career as a concession to his foreign colleagues who struggled with his full name.

It was a small compromise that spoke volumes about his adaptability and global mindset, qualities that had propelled him from humble beginnings to the upper echelons of international business.

Under his leadership, L'Oréal had seen unprecedented growth in emerging markets, with Sam's unique blend of Eastern wisdom and Western business acumen earning him a reputation as a formidable yet compassionate leader.

Gayatri, Sam's wife, nervously checked her phone for the umpteenth time. Her husband was late, as usual. She smiled ruefully, remembering how this had been a constant throughout their married life.

"He's probably lost in a book in the bathroom again," she thought, shaking her head fondly.

As she greeted the arriving guests, Gayatri's mind wandered to the journey that had brought him here.

From his humble beginnings in a chawl in Kalyan, a suburb in Mumbai to the current life of luxury in Paris, it had been quite a ride.

She remembered the day she first met Sam, an arranged marriage meeting set up by their parents. He had been so earnest, so focused on his goals. Little did she know then how far that focus would take him.

The guests were a mix of family, old friends, and colleagues from around the world.

Sam's mother, Alamelu, sat in a place of honor, her eyes gleaming with pride as she watched the gathering. His brother, Sundaram, stood nearby, regaling some of Sam's old schoolmates with stories from their childhood.

Pravin Sonar, Sam's childhood friend from Kalyan, was deep in conversation with Bertrand -Etienne Agon, the CEO of L'Oréal. "You know," Pravin was saying, "Sam never touched a drop of alcohol or smoked a single cigarette in his life. Even when we were teenagers and everyone was experimenting, he'd just say, 'My folks wouldn't like it.' That was always enough for him."

Bertrand nodded, impressed. "That determination is what made him such an asset to our company. When Sam sets his mind to something, it gets done. No excuses, no delays. Just results."

Across the room, Sam's son Arvind, the youngest under-secretary at the United Nations, was catching up with his sister Kalyani, who had flown in from Boston where she worked for BCG. They both marveled at the turnout for their father's birthday.

"Dad's really made an impact, hasn't he?" Arvind observed, looking around at the diverse crowd.

Kalyani nodded. "It's amazing. From Chennai to Clichy, L’oreal HQ, he's touched so many lives. I just hope he knows how much he means to all of us."

As the evening progressed, various guests took turns sharing stories and tributes to Sam. His mother spoke of his dutiful nature, how he had always put family first.

His brother thanked him for supporting his education after their father's untimely passing.

Colleagues praised his business acumen and his ability to turn L'Oréal into a global powerhouse.

A common theme emerged in all the speeches: Sam's unwavering focus, his dedication to others, and his seemingly boundless energy. "At 60, he's fitter than most 30-year-olds," one colleague joked. "He can outpace any of us on the stairs, and his stamina in meetings is legendary."

Another friend marveled at Sam's ability to stay grounded in the age of social media and constant distraction. "He's never been one for unnecessary noise," the friend noted. "Always focused on what truly matters. In fact, I don't think he's ever had a social media account in his life!"

This revelation caused a stir among some of the younger guests. In an age where everyone's life seemed to be on display, Sam's complete absence from social media platforms was almost unheard of. It spoke volumes about his dedication to real-world connections and his disdain for digital distractions.

When it was Gayatri's turn to speak, she struggled to hold back tears.

"In all our years together," she began, "I can't remember a single day where we truly fought or disagreed. Sam has always been my rock, my support. He never broke his promise of taking at least two-family vacations every year, no matter how busy work got."

She paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Of course, he was always late to the airport, just like he's late to his own birthday party!"

The crowd laughed, and Gayatri continued, "But that's just Sam. Always taking his time in the bathroom with his books, always the last to arrive at any gathering. But when he does arrive, he makes it count."

As Gayatri finished her speech, the anticipation in the room grew. Where was the man of the hour?

Just as people began to whisper and wonder, the doors swung open, and Sriram Sangharalingam Iyer strode in.

He looked every bit the successful executive in his tailored suit, but there was something different about him. A sparkle in his eye, a spring in his step that went beyond his usual energy.

He took the stage amidst thunderous applause, and the room fell silent, eager to hear from the man they had all gathered to celebrate.

Before you began, Gayatri insisted he cut a large cake which he did amidst a loud cheer and everyone singing the birthday song, as things settled and the gathering rested in their seats, Sam rose to speak.

Sam began by thanking everyone individually, showing his remarkable memory by addressing each person by name. He spoke of his gratitude for the opportunities he'd been given, the support he'd received from family, friends, and colleagues. But as he continued, a subtle shift occurred in his tone.

"As I stand here today, turning 60," Sam said, his voice taking on a reflective quality, "I find myself thinking about the chapters of my life. The first 20-odd years were dedicated to my parents and my education. The next chapter was for my own family, for Gayatri and our wonderful children. And for the past two decades, I've given my all to L'Oréal, a company that has become like a second family to me."

He paused, looking out at the sea of familiar faces. "But now, as I enter this new decade of my life, I find myself at a crossroads. And I've come to a decision that may surprise you all."

The room held its collective breath, sensing that something momentous was about to happen.


"I've decided," Sam continued, his voice steady but filled with emotion, "that it's time for me to live for myself. To that end, I am resigning from all my professional and personal responsibilities."

A gasp went through the crowd. Sam held up his hand, asking for silence.

"I am stepping down from my position on the board of L'Oréal and all other professional commitments. And..."

He turned to look directly at Gayatri, his eyes filled with a mix of sadness and resolve,

"I am also asking for a divorce."

The silence in the room was deafening. Gayatri's face went pale, her hand flying to her mouth in shock.

"I want you all to understand," Sam continued, his voice breaking slightly, "that this decision comes from a place of deep reflection and gratitude. I have lived my life for others, and I am proud of that. But now, I feel a calling to explore, to experience, to live in a way I've never allowed myself before. I will be leaving directly from this celebration to begin my new journey."

“I have made all the necessary arrangements including all the paperwork and stuff so, Gayatri, please don’t be worried about anything. I thought if I had married you in a gathering like this, witnessed by all, It was important that this decision also deserved the same attention”

The stunned silence gave way to a flurry of whispers and exclamations. Some guests looked confused, others angry, and a few seemed to show a glimmer of understanding.

Sam finished his speech by thanking everyone once again for their love and support over the years. As he stepped down from the stage, the room erupted into chaos. Gayatri rushed to him, tears streaming down her face, while others crowded around, demanding explanations.

But Sam, with a serenity that seemed at odds with the tumult around him, simply picked up a small bag that had been hidden behind the stage. He hugged his children, whispered something to his shocked wife, and with one last look at the gathering, walked out of the ballroom and into the warm Chennai night.

In the months that followed, Sam seemed to vanish from the lives of those who had known him. His family and friends were left to grapple with the sudden void he had left behind. Gayatri, initially devastated, found herself reevaluating her own life and desires.

Arvind and Kalyani, while hurt by their father's decision, couldn't help but feel a grudging admiration for his courage.

Then, one morning, months after the fateful birthday party, phones began to buzz and notifications popped up on screens across the globe. Sam's friends and family found themselves inundated with links to Instagram posts and YouTube videos from the man who had disappeared from their lives.

There he was, scaling the peaks of Kanchenjunga, his face weathered but beaming with joy. Another image showed him snorkelling in the crystal-clear waters off the coast of South Africa, surrounded by a rainbow of tropical fish. Videos surfaced of Sam surfing the massive waves of Australia's Gold Coast, his laughter carried on the ocean breeze.

More surprises followed. Sam, the lifelong teetotaler and vegetarian, was pictured savoring a glass of wine in a Tuscan vineyard and carving into a juicy steak in Argentina. He was seen in the company of beautiful women from various cultures, his arm around their waists as they explored ancient ruins and bustling markets.

But it wasn't all hedonistic pleasure. Sam appeared in videos teaching eager students in a small classroom in Mozambique, his eyes alight with the joy of sharing knowledge.

He was captured playing hockey with red-robed monks in a Bhutanese monastery, his competitive spirit still evident in his stance. Another video showed him deep in meditation at a Vipassana center, his face serene and untroubled.

What struck everyone was not just the content of these posts, but their very existence. Sam, who had shunned social media his entire life, was now embracing it with gusto.

His Instagram account and YouTube channel were gathering followers and views at an astonishing rate. People were drawn to his authentic, unfiltered take on life, his willingness to try new things, and his infectious joy.

Interestingly, Sam had disabled comments on all his posts. This detail didn't go unnoticed by those who knew him best. It was as if he was saying, "Here's my life, take it or leave it, but I'm not interested in your judgment."

He was living life in gay abandon, more concerned with the people he could see and touch in person than with the opinions of faceless strangers on the internet.

As these glimpses into Sam's new life continued to appear, those who knew him best found their initial shock and hurt giving way to a complex mix of emotions. There was still sadness and a sense of loss, but also a growing understanding. They saw in these images and videos a man truly living life on his own terms for the first time.

Gayatri, watching a video of Sam laughing with a group of Maasai warriors in Kenya, felt a bittersweet pang. She remembered the restlessness she had sometimes sensed in him, the longing looks he would cast at travel documentaries. She realized now that she had always known, on some level, that there was a part of Sam that yearned for something more.

Arvind and Kalyani, initially angry at what they saw as their father's abandonment, began to see his decision in a new light. They recognized in his actions a lesson about the importance of personal fulfillment and the courage it takes to pursue one's dreams, even when it means upending everything familiar.

Sam's former colleagues at L'Oréal, while still reeling from the loss of such a valuable leader, couldn't help but admire the gusto with which he had embraced his new life. Bertrand Agon, watching a video of Sam teaching business basics to young entrepreneurs in Ghana, smiled ruefully. "Even in retirement, he can't help but excel," he mused.

As the years passed, Sam's journey took on an almost mythical quality among those who had known him. His story became a topic of heated debate in corporate boardrooms and family gatherings alike.

Some saw him as selfish, others as brave. But for Sam, these discussions were as distant as the life he had left behind.

One crisp morning, as the sun began to paint the sky with hues of orange and pink, Sam stood atop a hill in New Zealand. The world below was still shrouded in mist, creating an ethereal landscape that seemed to stretch into infinity. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool, clean air, and felt a profound sense of peace wash over him.


In that moment, Sam realized that he had finally found what he had been seeking all along - not in the thrill of adventure or the taste of new experiences, but in the quiet contentment that comes from being truly present in each moment.

He thought back to his old life - the endless meetings, the constant pressure, the relentless pursuit of success. He remembered the love of his family, the respect of his colleagues, the comfort of his routines.

For a brief moment, a pang of nostalgia tugged at his heart. But as he watched an eagle soar overhead, riding the thermals with effortless grace, he knew he had made the right choice, a life, an accidental one, the only one, lived to its brim.

Sam's Instagram feed and YouTube channel had long since stopped being updated.

The last post, dated several months ago, was a simple image of a path disappearing into a lush forest, captioned with a quote from Rabindranath Tagore: "I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument, while the song I came to sing remains unsung."

Those who knew Sam best understood the message. He had spent a lifetime tuning himself to the expectations of others, perfecting himself as an instrument of success and duty. Now, in the autumn of his life, he had finally begun to sing his own song.

As he descended the hill, Sam felt a lightness in his step that belied his years. He had no idea what the future held, and for the first time in his life, that uncertainty filled him not with anxiety, but with joy.

He had traded the security of his old life for something far more precious - the freedom to simply be.

Back in Chennai, Gayatri sometimes found herself looking at old family photos, a bittersweet smile playing on her lips. Arvind and Kalyani, in quiet moments between their busy lives, would wonder about their father's whereabouts.

And in a boardroom in Paris, when faced with a particularly challenging decision, Bertrand Agon would sometimes ask himself, "What would Sam do?"

But Sam himself was no longer concerned with the impact of his choices on others. He had given sixty years of his life to duty and responsibility. Now, each day was a gift to himself, each moment an opportunity for growth and self-discovery.

As the mist began to clear, revealing the stunning landscape below, Sam smiled to himself. He had no regrets, no lingering doubts. In stepping away from everything he had known, he had found something he never knew he was missing - himself.

And in that self-discovery, Sriram Sangharalingam Iyer, known to the world as Sam, had found a peace more profound than any he had ever known. It was a peace born not of achievement or accolades, but of authenticity and acceptance.

In the end, he had discovered that the greatest journey of all was the one that led him back to his true self.

As he continued his descent, ready to embrace whatever new experiences the day might bring, Sam carried with him the quiet certainty that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

And in that certainty, he had found his ultimate liberation.

The Silenced Tapestry

 

In the heart of Gulmohur Chowk, a bustling locality in Mumbai, stood Rehman's Emporium. The shop occupied the ground floor of a weathered Art Deco building, its display window a portal to a world frozen in elegant repose.

Adil gazed out of the display window of Rehman's modest shop.

His painted brown eyes, never quite capturing the vitality of real irises, looking out at the bustling street. In the liminal space between reality and imagination, he lived, his consciousness awakened by a simple act of kindness.

He remembered the day Abdul Rehman, then a young man with dreams as vast as the Arabian Sea, had carefully placed him in the window. Rehman had adjusted Adil's posture, whispering, "You'll be Adil. Strong and just, like your name." From that moment, Adil was more than just a mannequin; he was a silent sentinel, observing the ebb and flow of life in the small men's clothing store.

Through Adil's eyes, the story of Rehman's Emporium unfolded. He watched as Rehman, a former street vendor, poured his heart and soul into the shop. Customers came and went, some lingering to chat, others hurrying through their purchases. Adil observed Rehman's kindness, his sharp eye for quality, and his unwavering dedication.

Years passed, and Adil witnessed the shop's gradual growth. Then came a day that would change everything. Rehman entered the shop with a new figure, feminine and graceful. "Meher," Rehman said, positioning her gentle hand on Adil's arm, "kindness personified."

Adil felt a ripple in his consciousness as Meher came to life beside him. Her perfect pink lips curved in a perpetual smile, her green eyes seeming to hold all the mysteries of the world. "Hello," Adil thought, warmth spreading through his rigid form. "You're... you're beautiful."

Meher's thoughts brushed against his, a feather-light touch. "Thank you," she replied, her mental voice melodious. "I think we're going to make a wonderful team."

Together, they watched as Rehman's Emporium expanded to include women's wear. The shop buzzed with new energy as female customers flocked in, admiring the colorful saris and elegant salwar suits that now hung alongside the men's clothing.

More years passed, and Adil and Meher's family grew. Zain arrived first, a small boy mannequin that Rehman placed with a chuckle. "Zain, the handsome little man. You'll charm every child that passes by." The arrival of Alia, a girl mannequin, completed their family. "And Alia, our beauty," Rehman had said, his eyes twinkling.

The silent family observed as the shop transformed into a thriving emporium catering to all. They watched Rehman age, his beard turning salt-and-pepper, wisdom deepening in his eyes. Yet every morning, without fail, he would greet them.

"Good morning, Adil. Meher, you're looking radiant as always. Zain, Alia, I hope you two behave today."

His employees would exchange knowing smiles, attributing it to the eccentricity of age or the quirkiness of a man who had spent decades breathing life into fabrics and fashions. Little did they know that in naming these silent sentinels, Rehman had unknowingly given voice to their hidden consciousness.

Through the years, Adil and his family of four witnessed the changing tapestry of Rehman's life. They saw his joy during festivals, particularly Ganesh Chaturthi, when he would place a small idol of the elephant-headed god in a quiet corner of the shop, the festivities took him back to his childhood days in his village spent celebrating with his friends.

They felt his pain when he spoke of his lost family – his father and brothers, fishermen swallowed by the sea in not very far Konkan.

They understood his deep gratitude towards Shelar Kaku, the Hindu matriarch who had taken him in when he first arrived in Mumbai.

The silent family watched as the staff grew. They observed the arrival of Jyoti, noting Rehman's protective attitude towards her. They saw how he treated her like a daughter, and they understood why – she was his link to Shelar Kaku, her granddaughter, progeny of her wayward son, a debt of kindness he was determined to repay.

But it was the arrival of Nasir, his distant relative that sent a ripple of unease through Adil and Meher’s shared consciousness. Adil noticed the young man's eager eyes and restless hands, the way his gaze lingered too long on Jyoti. A small metal anchor-shaped keychain swirled constantly around Nasir's index finger, a nervous habit that intensified whenever he looked at the young Jyoti.

Meher's thoughts brushed against Adil's. "Something's not right about that one," she mused.

Their suspicions were confirmed when they witnessed Rehman calling Nasir into his office one day. Though they couldn't hear the words, but they didn’t miss the part when Rehman opened his cabin door and shouted“…you leave my store right now and never ever show me your face…Get OUT”

They saw Nasir's flushed face and the dark flicker in his eyes as he left.

Meher had told Adil about the lecherous Nasir and how he vicariously used to eye Jyoti all the time.

As days melted into weeks, the silent family observed a change in the air of Mumbai. The bustling streets of Gulmohur Chowk, once a symphony of life, now pulsed with an undercurrent of tension.

"The air tastes of fear," Adil communicated to Meher, his thoughts tinged with worry.

Meher's consciousness caressed his. "This too shall pass, my love. We've seen troubled times before."

But even Meher's optimism wavered as they watched Rehman's shoulders grow heavier, his eyes wearier. The television in the corner, once tuned to cheerful Bollywood songs, now blared news of bandhs and curfews.

The silent family observed as the shop's rhythm changed. Customers hurried through their purchases, eyes darting nervously to the streets outside. The joyous chaos of festival shopping was replaced by a tense quietude.

Their concern deepened when a group of angry men barged into the store one afternoon. They watched helplessly as the men threatened Rehman, telling him to close the shop.

But Rehman stood his ground, his voice calm but firm. "This shop has been here for decades. We serve all, fear none. I won't be closing."

‘You will regret this old man, mind you’

As the men left, their threats hanging in the air, Adil felt a chill run through his rigid form. "What if they come back?" Zain's thoughts quivered with apprehension.

"Rehman sahab is strong," Meher reassured them. "He won't bow to their threats."

But as the days wore on, and the tension in the city ratcheted higher, even the ever-optimistic Meher couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was looming on the horizon.

Then came the night that would change everything. The silent family sensed the danger before they saw it. An acrid smell seeped under the door, followed by an oily liquid spreading across the floor. Flames erupted, quickly engulfing the store.

As the inferno raged, the silent family watched in horror as their world melted around them. Adil saw Meher's beautiful face begin to warp, her perfect pink lips distorting in the heat. Zain and Alia, their beloved children, were engulfed by the flames.

In their last moments of consciousness, they shared a final, loving thought – a goodbye to each other and to the shop they had called home for so long.

As dawn broke, the silent family lay in ruins – melted, charred, and broken. Yet, even in this state, a flicker of awareness remained. They watched as Rehman stood amidst the smouldering remains of his life's work. His sons tried to comfort him, urging him to blame the ongoing tensions, to seek revenge against the faceless mob.

But then, Rehman's sharp eyes caught a glint amidst the ashes. He bent down, his fingers closing around a small metal object. As he straightened, the anchor-shaped keychain dangled from his hand, its once-shiny surface now blackened by soot.

"No," Rehman said, his voice heavy with the weight of realization. "This wasn't about community. This was personal."

His gaze fell on Adil's half-melted form. For a moment, it seemed as if their eyes met, sharing a profound understanding of betrayal and loss. "At least there was no human loss," Rehman said softly, his hand clenching around the damning piece of evidence. "That's the biggest relief."

As Mumbai began to stir around them, the remnants of the silent family bore witness to the complex tapestry of human emotions that had led to this moment.

They saw the city, like them, scarred but not broken. And in the ashes of destruction, they sensed the seeds of resilience already beginning to sprout.

In their last moments of awareness, they felt Rehman's presence. He stood among the ruins, picking up a charred piece of fabric, once part of a beautiful sari. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

"Thank you, my friends. For everything," he whispered.

And in the spaces between reality and imagination, four consciousnesses stirred one last time, a final farewell to the man who had seen them as more than just mannequins.

Their story had ended, but their spirit, like the resilience of Mumbai itself, would endure.

When Silence Speaks

 

The Jog family resided in a plush apartment in Pune's Koregaon Park. Chhaya Jog, the matriarch of the family, was just finishing her morning puja when she heard a commotion at the door.

 

"Tai! Tai!" came a frantic voice.

 

Chhaya rushed to the entrance, where she found Sakubai, their maid, in tears. "Kay zhala, Saku?" she asked, concern etched on her face.

 

Between sobs, Sakubai explained that her son had been in an accident and needed immediate surgery. Without hesitation, Chhaya called her husband, Sadashiv.

 

"Sadu, please transfer fifty thousand rupees to Sakubai's account immediately. It's an emergency."

 

Turning to Sakubai, she said softly, "Saku, ja lawakar. mulaacha kaaljee ghe. kaahi laagla tar call kar ( go immediately, be with your son, call me if you need anything more)..."

 

As Sakubai left, showering blessings on Chhaya, Avantika, Chhaya's 23-year-old daughter, emerged from her room.

"Aai, you're always helping someone or the other," she said, admiration clear in her voice. Avantika, her first born had a deep bond with her, they never seemed like a mother-daughter duo, Chhaya never looked her age.

 

Chhaya smiled, "Aavu, helping others is what gives life meaning."

 

Just then, Chhaya's mother-in-law, called out from her room. "Chhaya! Majhi aushadh!(My meds)"

 

"Yete, Aai!" Chhaya responded, hurrying to tend to her mother-in-law's needs.

 

Avantika watched as her mother patiently helped Ajji with her medications, explaining each pill's purpose. Despite the older woman's occasional grumbling, Chhaya's patience never wavered.

 

Later that evening, as Chhaya watered the plants on their balcony, she noticed Ranjit kaka, the society's security guard, looking distressed.

 

"Kaka, kay zhala?(Uncle, What happened)" she called out.

 

Ranjit kaka hesitated before sharing that his daughter's wedding was approaching, and he was struggling with the expenses.

 

Chhaya's eyes softened. "Kaka, tumchi mulgee aamchich mulgee aahe. Kaaljee karu naka. Mi bolte Sadashiv sobat.( Dont Worry,I will talk to Sadashiv, will arrange )"

 

The next day, Chhaya invited her close friends from the society - Revati and Manjusha - for chai. As they sat in the living room, Chhaya's 19-year-old son, Adwait, stumbled in, looking haggard.

 

"Adu! Kay zhala?" Chhaya exclaimed.

 

"Nothing, Aai. Just stressed about exams," Adwait mumbled.

 

Chhaya immediately excused herself from her friends and spent the next hour comforting Adwait, making him his favorite ukdiche modak and offering words of encouragement.

 

Revati watched this interaction with a mix of admiration and envy. "Chhaya, tu khupach lucky aahes. Perfect family, perfect life."

 

Chhaya smiled at her but she was still checking on Adwait as he was going back to his room.

 

As the days passed, Chhaya prepared for her annual Vipassana retreat in Igatpuri. The night before her departure, the family gathered for dinner. It was always difficult for the family to understand how a hand's down homemaker can cutoff for 10 days and function for it was unimaginable for them.

 

Sadashiv, looking up from his laptop, said, "I wonder always, how can people do nothing but just stare and meditate, mala ajibaat jamnaar nahi"

 

Everyone had a hearty laugh looking at Sadashiv.

 

Avantika chimed in, "Aai, you deserve this break. You're always taking care of everyone else."

 

Adwait nodded in agreement, his mouth full of puran poli.

 

The next morning, as Chhaya left, each family member hugged her tightly. Ajji, usually reticent with her emotions, held Chhaya's hand and said, "Lawakar ye."

 

Three days into Chhaya's retreat, the Jog household though missing her, were engaged with their usual activities. Avantika was helping Ajji with her dinner when her phone rang. The caller ID displayed a name she hadn't seen in years: Soham Parchure.

 

"Soham?" Avantika answered, surprise evident in her voice. "It's been so long! How are you?"

 

"Avantika! Yes, it has been a while," Soham replied, his tone a mix of warmth and hesitation. "I'm doing well. I heard you completed your MBA. Congratulations!"

 

"Thanks, Soham. Yes, I did. And you? Last I heard, you had joined the police force."

 

"That's right. I'm an Inspector now, posted in Igatpuri," Soham paused, his voice growing serious. "Avantika, I... I'm actually calling about something important. Are you sitting down?"

 

Avantika's heart skipped a beat. "Soham, what's going on? You're scaring me."

 

Soham took a deep breath. "Avantika, there's been an accident. Your mother... Mrs. Jog... she's been admitted to Igatpuri General Hospital. It's serious. You and your family should come immediately."

 

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Avantika gripped the phone tightly, her knuckles turning white. "What? How? Soham, tell me everything!"

 

"I think it's better if we talk in person, Avantika. Please, come to Igatpuri as soon as you can. I'll meet you at the hospital."

 

In a daze, Avantika informed her family. Within minutes, they were in the car, speeding towards Igatpuri, their hearts pounding with fear and uncertainty.

 

At the hospital, Soham met them at the entrance. His face was grave as he led them to a private waiting area. The doctor had just finished briefing them on Chhaya's critical condition when Soham gently pulled Avantika aside.

 

"Avantika, there's something else you need to know," he said softly, his eyes filled with concern. "When I found your mother's phone at the accident site,  saw she had last dialed a contact named 'Aavu'. I didn't realize it was you until I dialed the number from  my phone and your name showed up. It was... unexpected."

 

Avantika nodded, remembering the childhood nickname her mother still used for her.

 

Soham continued, his voice low and gentle. "There's more, Avantika. And it's... difficult. Your mother wasn't alone in the car. There was a man with her, around 45 years old. He... he didn't survive the crash. They were both staying in a nearby hotel since last three days, his whereabouts are being investigated. The Hotel staff said they were among their regular guests there" Soham was very careful in coining his words.

 

Avantika felt the ground slip away beneath her feet. She stared at Soham, unable to process his words.

 

Seeing her shock, Soham who knew that she or anyone in their family was totally unaware about this, quickly added, "I understand this is a lot to take in. I haven't mentioned this to anyone else yet. I thought... I thought you should be the first to know, given our history."

 

Avantika nodded numbly, grateful for Soham's discretion and sensitivity.

 

"Take your time," Soham said softly. "I'm here if you need anything. We can discuss how to handle this information when you're ready."

 

As Avantika stumbled back to her family, her mind raced. Her mother, the pillar of their family, the epitome of devotion and sacrifice... had been leading a double life? How could she protect her mother's reputation? How would this affect their family?

 

Standing by Chhaya's bedside, the rhythmic hum of the ventilator seemed to grow louder, drowning out everything else. Dr. Prakash approached; his face etched with concern.

 

"Ms. Jog," he addressed Avantika softly, "I'm afraid your mother's condition isn't improving. The latest scans show minimal brain activity. We need to discuss... how long you want to continue with the ventilator support."

 

The words hit Avantika like a physical blow. She looked at her family, scattered around the sterile ICU room. Her father, Sadashiv, stood rigid in the corner, his face a mask of anger and betrayal. Adwait sat slumped in a chair, tears streaming down his face, a mix of confusion and helplessness evident in his eyes. Ajji wept silently, her wrinkled hands clutching her daughter-in-law's unresponsive fingers.

 

Avantika felt a surge of protectiveness towards her mother. She could see the judgment in her father's eyes, the disbelief in Adwait's. But all she could think of was the woman who had given everything for her family. The same woman who, perhaps, had needs and desires of her own that none of them had ever considered.

 

"She was more than just our mother," Avantika found herself saying, her voice trembling but growing stronger with each word. "She was a woman, an individual. We... we never stopped to think about what she might have needed, what she might have been missing."

 

Sadashiv's head snapped up, his eyes flashing. "How can you defend her? After what she's done?"

 

"Baba," Avantika pleaded, "Aai loved us more than anything. But maybe... maybe she needed something for herself too. We can't judge her entire life based on this one thing we've discovered."

 

Adwait looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. "But Tai, how could she do this to us? To Baba?"

 

Avantika moved to her brother, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Adu, we don't know the whole story. And we may never know. But what we do know is how much Aai loved us, cared for us. That hasn't changed."

 

She turned back to Dr. Prakash, who had been waiting patiently. "Doctor, how... how long does Aai have if we remove the ventilator?"

 

The doctor's eyes filled with sympathy. "It's hard to say with certainty, but given her condition... probably not more than a few hours."

 

Avantika felt her heart breaking, but she knew what she had to do. She looked at each family member in turn, silently asking for their agreement. Sadashiv turned away, unable to meet her gaze. Adwait nodded slightly, tears still flowing. Ajji squeezed Chhaya's hand one last time before letting go.

 

"We'll... we'll remove the ventilator," Avantika said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But we'd like to stay with her until..."

 

Dr. Prakash nodded understandingly. "Of course. I'll make the arrangements."

 

As the medical team prepared to remove the life support, Avantika leaned close to her mother's ear. "Aai," she whispered, "we love you. No matter what. You can rest now."

 

The family gathered around Chhaya's bed, their anger and confusion momentarily set aside in the face of their impending loss. As the ventilator was switched off, the room fell into a deep, heavy silence.

 

In those final moments, as Chhaya's breathing grew shallow and eventually stopped, Avantika made a silent vow. She would honor her mother's memory not just as the perfect wife and mother they had always seen, but as a complex, human woman with dreams and desires of her own. And perhaps, in time, she could help her family understand her more.

 

As Chhaya took her last breath, the Jog family stood united in grief, the first step in a long journey of healing and understanding that lay ahead of them.

Anklets in the Shadows...!!

 

The aesthetically rich old tharavadu known around the place as ‘Valiya Veedu’ stood weathering countless monsoons in the lush, green heart of Ernakulam district, where the Periyar River embraced the Arabian Sea.

This ancestral home belonged to Vasundhara Menon, the renowned Mohini Attam dancer and Padma Shri awardee. The house, with its red-tiled roof and weathered teak pillars, was home to many talents, her mother was a reputed Carnatic singer, father an awesome Mridangam player. The tharavadu was a silent witness to the ebb and flow of art, ambition, and the unchanging rhythms of Kerala life.

Vasundhara's fiercely competitive spirit, focus and dedication to her art had catapulted her to where she was today, often compared to the thespian and Mohini Attam’s legend, Kanak Rele.

But this came at a cost, her short lived marriage suffered and ended in a bitter divorce.

As the monsoon rains lashed against the windows, the sound of ankle bells tinkling in rhythm with the mridangam filled the air. Vasundhara's eyes blazed with intensity as she watched the dancers , struggle through the intricate mudras of Mohini Attam, students of hers who were mostly daughters of equally rich background, diplomats or ministers.

It was a privilege and a rare opportunity to be trained under Vasundhara for she carefully chose her students.

"Manjushree! Your wrists are as stiff as my father’s walking cane lying in the corner, Soften them girl!" Vasundhara's shrill voice cut through the music. The girl in question, sweat beading on her forehead, nodded frantically and attempted to correct her posture.

In the corner of the room, Devika Menon observed the class, her own ankle bells silent. At fifteen, she was the spitting image of her mother in her youth – the same high cheekbones, the same imperious tilt of the chin. But where Vasundhara's eyes held fire, Devika's held a gentler light.

Devika knew very early in life that her mother wants to relive all her glory again, through her. She was definitely better than the other students but Devika was aware of her frailties.

As the students fumbled through the Cholkettu, the opening piece of the Mohini Attam repertoire, Devika's gaze drifted to the window. Through the rain-streaked glass, she caught sight of a small figure darting across the garden – Kani, the daughter of their house help, Lakshmi.

Devika watched as Kani paused by the window, her wide eyes taking in the dance class. For a moment, their gazes met, and Devika offered a small smile. Kani's face lit up, but before she could respond, Lakshmi appeared, ushering her daughter away with urgent whispers.

"Devika! Stop daydreaming and show these girls how it's done," Vasundhara with a certain surety commanded, breaking the moment.

Devika rose, the bells at her ankles chiming softly. As she took her position at the center of the room, she caught sight of Kani's face peeking around the door frame, eyes shining with admiration and longing.

The mridangam began its rhythm anew, and Devika's body flowed into the familiar movements. Her arms curved like gentle waves, her eyes darted in practiced nritta, and her feet stamped out complex patterns on the cool stone floor.

Vasundhara always used to watch her daughter with a gleam in her eyes, mixture of pride but also critically assessed her. "It was okay, can be better," she said as Devika finished, "your abhinaya still lacks depth. You must feel the emotion, not just show it."

As the class continued, none of the girls practising in the central courtyard of the naalkettu noticed Kani mimicking the movements in the shadows of the veranda, her bare feet silent on the worn stone, her eyes closed in concentration as she lost herself in the dance.

While life in the Menon tharavadu revolved around the rhythm of the dance classes, a different tune marked the days in the small village of Puthenvelikkara, just a few kilometers away. Here, in a modest thatched hut at the edge of a lush paddy field, lived Lakshmi's family. They were among many displaced families who had settled there as a result of a big dam usurping their land many years back.

Each morning, before the sun had fully risen, Lakshmi’s husband, Rajan would leave for the nearby rubber plantation, joining the throng of landless laborers. His calloused hands and weathered face told the story of years of hard work and meager rewards.

Lakshmi would hurry to prepare for her day of work at the Menon household, her quick movements a dance of their own - one choreographed by necessity and seasoned with worry. Kani, their daughter, would stir on her thin mattress, blinking sleep from her eyes.

"Amma, can I come with you today?" Kani would often ask, her voice hopeful.

Lakshmi would smile tiredly. "Not today, molu. You have school. Maybe this weekend, if Menon amma allows it."

As Kani dressed for school in her worn but clean uniform, her ears tranced her to the faint strains of music from the big house. Her feet moved unconsciously, tracing patterns on the packed earth floor.

"Kani!" Lakshmi's voice would snap her out of her reverie. "Hurry now, or you'll be late."

As Kani rushed out, narrowly avoiding the puddles left by last night's rain, Lakshmi would watch her go with a mixture of love and worry. Times were hard, and getting harder. Rubber prices had drastically dropped, Rajan's work at the plantation was irregular, and the meager pay barely kept food on the table. Lakshmi's job at the Menon house was their lifeline, but that too couldn’t hold her house tight.

In the following weeks, as Vasundhara drilled her students relentlessly, Kani found herself drawn more and more to the big house. On days when she didn't have school, she would accompany her mother, ostensibly to help with chores. But her real purpose was to sneak glances at the dance classes, her keen eyes absorbing every movement, every expression.

One sweltering afternoon, as Vasundhara's students wilted in the heat, Kani was scrubbing the veranda floor. The mridangam from the dance room wafted through the air, and almost unconsciously, Kani's hands began to move in rhythm, her eyes half-closed as she lost herself in the melody.

Devika, stepping out for a drink of water, froze at the sight, she couldn’t believe what her eyes saw. There was Kani, on her knees, performing Sankalana Mudra, one of the most difficult one as it requires one to show different Mudras on both hands at the same time - the one she and her fellow students had been struggling with for weeks - with effortless grace.

"Kani?" Devika's voice was barely a whisper, but it was enough to snap Kani out of her trance. The girl's eyes widened in fear, her hands trembling as she clutched the scrubbing brush.

"Chechi…please, don't tell Amma," Kani pleaded, her voice quavering. "She'll be very angry if she knows I've been watching. My mother badly needs this job, chechi. I will never do it again" Kani was petrified of the possible outcome.

Devika knelt beside her, taking Kani's calloused hands in her own. "Why would I tell? What you just did... it was so beautiful."

A tentative smile blossomed on Kani's face, and in that moment, a bond was forged between the two girls that would change both their lives.

As the annual inter-school dance competition of Ernakulam district approached, tension filled the air. This wasn't just any competition - it was a chance for schools across the region to showcase their talent, from the prestigious convent schools to the humble gram panchayat ones. School talent competitions across Kerala is widely popular and covered by all media outlets.

In the Menon household, Vasundhara drilled her students relentlessly, with Devika bearing the brunt of her mother's perfectionism. Devika would be representing St. Mary's Convent, the most elite school in the district.

Vasundhara was certain of her daughter's victory.

Meanwhile, in Kani's small hut in Puthenvelikkara, a different kind of preparation was underway. With no formal training and no resources, Kani practiced in secret, using every spare moment to perfect her moves. Her local gram panchayat school, had initially been hesitant to send a representative. But Rukmani, Kani's teacher, having caught glimpses of her talent, had insisted she participate.

The day of the competition dawned bright and clear. The auditorium in Ernakulam city buzzed with excitement as dancers from schools across the district gathered, a riot of colorful costumes and nervous energy.

Vasundhara sat in the front row; her eyes sharp as she assessed each performer. Her gaze softened with pride as Devika took the stage, resplendent in her costume. Devika's performance was flawless, her grace and technique drawing appreciative murmurs from the crowd. As she finished, Vasundhara nodded in satisfaction, certain of her daughter's success.

But then, something unexpected happened. A slender girl in a simple, worn costume, sourced by Rukmani, took the stage. Vasundhara's eyes widened in recognition - it was Kani, the daughter of her house help, the one who use to always run away seeing her sight in her house. She hadn't even known the girl was participating.

As the music began, Kani transformed. Her movements were just magical, the mudras her small hands made were perfect, her pathakas, kartharimukhas enlivened the imagery, flowed like the smooth flowing Periyar River, but powerful and graceful.

Her eyes spoke of love, of longing, of the very spirit of Kerala itself. With no expensive costume or ankle bells, she turned the stage into her canvas, her mesmerising dance an example of raw, unbridled talent.

Vasundhara sat frozen with stunned eyes, her face a mask of conflicting emotions. This was not just an imitation of steps seen she may have learnt from afar. This was a prodigy in its purest form, the kind she hadn't witnessed in years - perhaps not since her own youth.

As Kani's performance ended, the auditorium erupted in unequivocal applause which didn’t seem to stop. Tears streamed down Lakshmi's face as she watched from the back, her heart swelling with pride and fear in equal measure at her daughter’s unbelievable performance.

When the judges rose to announce their decision, the audience spoke for them in unison, the auditorium raptured as one in proclaiming ‘Kani’ as the winner. the judges joined them and announced that the girl from the Puthenvelikkara gram panchayat school, had won first place.

Devika, to everyone's surprise, including her own, had secured a close second. She won everyone’s hearts when she lifted Kani’s left hand and gave her a peck on her cheek. Devika was happier for her friend’s win than anyone else in the auditorium.

Vasundhara's world tilted on its axis. Her daughter, whom she had trained rigorously for years, had been outperformed by a girl who had never had a formal lesson. A girl who cleaned their floors and tended their garden. The implications were staggering. She had self-doubts for the first time in her life and she hated the feeling which was creeping and eating her.

Vasundhara withdrew into herself, spending long hours alone in the dance room. Devika, didn’t miss noticing her mother’s agony, caught between joy for her friend and loyalty to her mother, she tried to bridge the growing divide.
|

In the days that followed, Kani's victory sent ripples through the community. Some celebrated the triumph of raw talent, while others whispered about the impropriety of a servant's daughter outshining her betters.

But fate had other plans. A week after the competition, as Kani was still basking in the glow of her win and preparing for the upcoming state-level competition, disaster struck. Rajan, desperate after losing his job at the plantation, was accused of stealing from a local landlord. Despite his protestations of innocence, he was arrested and thrown into the Ernakulam District Jail.

The news spread like wildfire through Puthenvelikkara. Lakshmi, frantic with worry, knew they needed help - and money - to bail out Rajan. With nowhere else to turn, she approached Vasundhara.

Vasundhara listened to Lakshmi's tearful plea, her mind racing. Here was an opportunity - to help, yes, but also to remove the threat to her daughter's success, to restore the natural order of things. But she needed time to plan, to make sure her intervention would yield the results she desired.

"Come back tomorrow," Vasundhara said, her voice carefully neutral. "I need to consider this."

That night, as Lakshmi and Kani huddled together in their hut, their future uncertain, Vasundhara paced in her room. She crafted her scheme carefully, weighing each word she would say.

The next morning, when Lakshmi returned, hope and desperation warring in her eyes, Vasundhara was ready.

"I will help you," she said slowly, "but I must speak to Kani alone first."

In the privacy of the dance room, Vasundhara made Kani an offer. The bail money in exchange for Kani's withdrawal from the upcoming state-level competition. Torn between her passion and her family's needs, Kani readily agreed, her dreams crumbling like the chalk powder on a dancer's feet.

But Devika, overhearing, felt her world shift, she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The mother she had idolized, the art she had devoted her life to - suddenly, it all seemed tainted.

She had heard of her mean streak, her fierce go-getting attitude when it came to achieve certain things, she herself was a prize her mother fought to the nail at the time of her divorce. She also feared her mother but she knew what her mother was asking her to do is unfair.

That night, as monsoon rains lashed the tharavadu once more, Devika made a decision. Sneaking out, she made her way to Kani's humble home in Puthenvelikkara, clutched in her hand, her savings she used to receive as kaineetam on her birthdays and festivals.

"Take it," she said, pressing the money into Kani's hands. "Compete. Dance. Show the world what Mohini Attam truly means."

Kani's eyes filled with tears. "But your mother..."

Devika, someone who was deprived of fatherly love, squared her shoulders. "Let me handle Amma. Some battles are worth fighting." Devika though unsure was determined to take on her mother should the time come.

The state-level competition, held in Thiruvananthapuram, was a blur of color and sound. Kani danced like one possessed, her performance a love letter to Kerala, to Mohini Attam, to the indomitable spirit of those who create art against all odds.

As the judges conferred, Devika sought out her mother in the audience. Vasundhara sat rigid, her eyes never leaving the stage where Kani had danced, she had never seen such a brilliant depiction of Mohini, the female enchantress in recent times

"Why, Amma?" Devika's voice was soft but firm. "Why would you try to stop her?"

Vasundhara was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was thick with emotion. "I saw myself in her. The hunger, the raw talent. I thought... I thought I was protecting you."

Devika took her mother's hand. "Art isn't a competition, Amma. It's a celebration. You taught me that, once."

As Kani's name was announced as the winner, Vasundhara stood. The auditorium fell silent as the renowned dancer made her way to the stage.

Standing before Kani, Vasundhara did something she hadn't done in years. She bent down and touched the feet of the young dancer, acknowledging her as a true artist.

"Teach me," Vasundhara said softly. "Teach me to dance like that again."

Kani's smile was as bright as the Kerala sun after a torrential rain. And as Devika joined them on stage, the three dancers stood together, representatives of past, present, and future, united by the timeless art of Mohini Attam.

In the years that followed, Kani rose to become one of the greatest students of the Vasundhara Menon School of Dance and it became not just known for its technical excellence, but for its heart. Dancers from all walks of life found a home there, their feet tracing ancient patterns on the weathered stone floor, their spirits soaring with each tinkling of the ankle bells.

And on quiet evenings, when the light turned golden and the air was heavy with the scent of jasmine, one might see three figures dancing in the Valiya Veedu’s courtyard - the teacher, her daughter, and the servant girl from Puthenvelikkara who had now become a maestro. Their movements told a story of tradition and change, of pride and humility, of the eternal dance of life itself.

As for Rajan, he was eventually cleared of all charges, the truth of his innocence coming to light. The Menon family, led by Vasundhara's newfound humility and Devika's unwavering sense of justice, used their influence to secure him a respectable job at the Cochin Port Trust.

The story of Kani, the celebrated dancer of Puthenvelikkara, became a legend in Ernakulam district and beyond. It served as a reminder that true art knows no boundaries of class or privilege, and that sometimes, the most profound lessons come from the most unexpected sources.

And so, in the heart of Kerala, where the backwaters mirror the sky and the rhythm of life beats in sync with the classical arts, a new chapter in the story of Mohini Attam was written - one of hope, transformation, and the enduring power of dance to bridge the divides that separate us.